


sunshine and rainy weather go hand in hand together

by SmittyJaws



Series: you're my best friend [5]
Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, F/M, Feels, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Conditions, Sick Character, Sickfic, ace!Deaky, ace!reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-06 08:30:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17936339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmittyJaws/pseuds/SmittyJaws
Summary: It's Queen's first tour of America, but there's trouble on the horizon.  AKA: The one where hepatitis pays a visit.





	sunshine and rainy weather go hand in hand together

**Author's Note:**

> Series notes: As always, I want to thank: @glamrockmonarch for her kickass headcanons, and @brian-may-likes-dust for putting up with all of my updates and spitballing ideas/shitposts xD you’re stellar, and I love you both 💜💜💜
> 
> Very slight AU, mostly in that this story assumes asexuality is more visible/discussed in the 70s (still stigmatized much like any deviation from “standard” heterosexual relationships though), but otherwise not much else is different aside from my lapses in memory regarding other historical information. Fic title is taken from the lyrics to Pain Is So Close To Pleasure.
> 
> \--
> 
> [Fic notes: This one is actually barely based off of any GRM headcanons! I really off-roaded with this fic. :P]

You’re woken up by the ringing of your phone, and it takes you a moment to register the sound and wake up enough to pick it up. “H’lo?” you mumble, fumbling for the switch to the bedside lamp and trying to find a clock. _What time is it?_

You hear a soft chuckle on the other end. “Hello, love. Have I woken you up?” You’ve found the clock by now, and your eyes widen. “Yeah, you did. It’s 5am here, Deaky.” You yawn again, still not completely awake, but not wanting to miss out on this. International calls are expensive, and finances are still tight even now, so any time getting to speak to John is precious and shouldn't be wasted. 

You hear a quiet curse from the other end. “Damn. I thought I’d called at a better time. It’s hard to keep track sometimes with all the traveling, and the jet lag doesn’t help either.” John sounds like he’s trying to stifle his own yawn now, and you laugh a little. 

“Aren’t you glad we paid that bit of extra money to put another phone in the bedroom now?” you tease. “If this is the kind of time you’ll keep calling I’ll definitely need the phone nearby. So how’s America? You feeling any better?”

John’s been feeling a bit rundown for a while now, but he’s been chalking it up to the busy schedule. What with a tour of the UK shortly after you’d gotten married, recording and releasing the band’s second album, finishing his electrical engineering exams, and now a tour of America (as a supporting band, but still!) he and the others have been going non-stop for months now with only a week off periodically. John has been making the most of those weeks off whenever possible, either spending as much time as he can sleeping in (a rarity for him), or just tinkering with things around the house, happy to just sit at home and not need to be anywhere. 

“I dunno, really. Haven’t had a chance to see much yet, but hopefully there’ll be opportunities soon. I’ll get you some pictures so you can see when I’m home.” You notice he hasn’t answered your other question, so you try again. “That’s good to hear. And you? You feeling alright?”

John sighs, and the receiver picks it up, a tinny crackle in your ear. “Haven’t felt at my best since before I left the UK if I’m honest, but you know how busy we’ve been - there’s no stopping right now. I’m sure I’ll be fine with some rest; might just be flu going around. Some of Mott’s crew were out with a bug not long ago apparently. Besides, the person I’m really worried about is Bri.”

“Oh?” You’re still half asleep and trying to follow along with his logic, but can’t honestly remember Brian looking or sounding ill recently when you’d last seen them a week or two ago. “Is he not well?”

“Not sure, but he seems off to me.” John sounds concerned. “Neither Fred nor Roger seem to think anything’s wrong, though. I’m keeping an eye out. Anyway, I should go now, but I’ll call again as soon as I can. And I’ll try to keep track of the time zones for the sake of your sleep,” he jokes.

You nod out of reflex, then belatedly realize that he can’t hear a nod. “Of course. I look forward to it.” There’s a short moment of silence before you speak again, softer this time. “I miss you. I can’t wait til you’re home again. Bean misses you too - she only sleeps on your side of the bed at night.”

“I miss you too, love. Both of you. So very much. It’s only for a few months, though.” John sounds wistful at this point, and you know he wants to to be home just as badly as you want him home. Playing local gigs was easy when you could go home to your own place together at the end of the night, but this is a completely different story. Just then, you hear a bit of a clatter and a curse on the other end. “You all right, John?”

“Sorry - just dropped the receiver for a moment there. Think I’ve been holding it in one position for too long; my arm fell asleep. Pins and needles all the way down.” You chuckle fondly. “Probably best to give it a rest then; you need your arm in tip-top condition to play bass.” 

“I suppose you’re right.” There’s a wry tone to John’s voice. “Anyway, try to get more sleep, won’t you? I’ll call when I can. I love you.”

“I will. Take care of yourself, John, and keep an eye on Bri if he’s not well - God knows he’ll push himself too far one of these days if he’s not careful. I love you too.” You hang up the phone and look over at where Bean has settled herself firmly on top of John’s pillow, snoring quietly. You reach over and ruffle her fur gently before turning off the bedside lamp and settling back down to get a few more hours of sleep. “I know, sweetie. I miss him too.”

——

Weeks pass this way, with you getting woken up at increasingly odd hours (although there are a few occasions where John manages to catch you at a slightly more reasonable time), but you know it’s John and always take his calls - you never know when he’ll be able to again, what with the cost of international calls and his busy schedule. Sometimes the others are around as well, and you’ve gotten subjected to Roger and Freddie’s wild stories on more than one occasion. Brian tends to generally be calmer than them when he talks to you (no surprise there), but you love hearing from them all.

You inquire about how Brian’s doing when you get a chance to speak to him, knowing John had expressed his concern. Brian sounds slightly stuffed up, but he shrugs it off and tells you as much: “it’s just a cold, honestly. Just taking a bit longer to shake it because I can’t rest properly.” He lowers his voice, presumably so John can’t hear. “I’m more concerned about John, actually. He hasn’t really seemed well for a couple of months and I think he’s pushing himself too hard.”

You frown a bit at that, sitting up a bit straighter in bed. “Is he really that bad?”

“I dunno. He really just hasn’t been doing well, and I’ve heard him mention a couple of times about his arm bothering him. He might have strained something. But of course you know he won’t actually talk about it all that much; just takes some paracetamol and soldiers on as if there isn’t a problem. He thinks we don’t notice it, but we do. We’re keeping an eye on him, don’t worry.”

You’re relieved to know that the others are watching out for John; you know he still feels as though he’s not fully integrated into the group sometimes, so it’s good to know that they’re supporting him. Still, you can’t shake a lingering bit of concern and tell Brian as such. He reassures you that everyone is watching out, but he hopes it’s just something small like muscle strain and fatigue. He passes the phone back to John after that, and the conversation turns back to trivial matters; your promotion to a management position at the museum, his funny story involving some locals at their last venue, and the usual sweet nothings about how much you both miss each other.

You can’t seem to get the sense of foreboding out of your head, though, and hope for John’s sake that you’re just paranoid. 

The next time you’re woken up by the phone, it’s not John. “Rog? This is a bit of a turn up.”

“You need to meet us at the hospital.” He sounds incredibly stressed, putting you on edge. “Deaky’s sick. Really sick.”

——

It takes a moment for the words to sink in. “What are you talking about?” you whisper, disbelieving. “He was fine when I spoke to him last. A bit tired, but nothing out of the ordinary.”

“That’s what we all thought as well,” Roger agrees, voice shaking. “A few missteps at shows, a bit of grumbling about his arm aching, looking a bit peaky; nothing that rest couldn’t solve. But he was barely holding on today and just collapsed after the last show. The label wouldn’t pay for him to be treated Stateside, so we’ve all flown back to London. He’s really not doing well; you should get here as soon as you can.” 

With those words, it’s like a bucket of cold water has been dumped on you and you’re wide awake. Distantly, you know this is only an adrenaline rush and that you’ll inevitably crash later on, but that’s not important right now. You vaguely recall scribbling down the address for the hospital before throwing some clothes on and driving there as fast as is safely possible. 

All the while, you’re berating yourself. Should you have noticed something? Should the others have? Roger had sounded pretty upset on the phone, though, leading you to think that nobody saw this coming and that they’re likely just as shocked by this as you are. You still berate yourself for not having been there; for having to find out about this secondhand. Logically you know there was no way that you could have been there, but you still feel a sense of guilt.

Driving to the hospital is a bit of a blur, and you’re surprised you didn’t end up crashing. But sooner than you expect, you’ve arrived and are being greeted by Brian. He looks as though he hasn’t had a chance to do anything since the concert, and still has stage clothes on and remnants of makeup smudged on his face. “God Bri, you look a fright,” you joke weakly, trying to cover up how terrified you are. For them to have come straight from a concert to fly overseas to a hospital means that John must be really bad, and you don’t want to think of the implications of that right now. “Have you terrified the nurses yet?”

Brian chokes out a laugh that sounds half like a sob as he gestures for you to follow him. “I’m sure we all did. We look like something out of a horror film, I imagine. Haven’t really had time to think about it, but I believe when I left to wait for you, the staff were forcing Freddie to clean up before they’d let him in to see John.”

You’ve got your arms wrapped around you to ward off a nonexistent chill, dreading what you might see. It still doesn’t feel quite real, and you’re still partially convinced that this is just a very lucid dream you’re having. You turn a corner and see Roger pacing the floor restlessly. He looks as though he’s already had a shower, and is dressed in a pair of bland hospital scrubs. His face is red, as though he’s been attempting to scour all the makeup off of him. When he sees you, he immediately rushes over and engulfs you in a hug: “Oh thank God. You made it. The doctors won’t tell us anything, and I don’t think anyone has a clue what’s wrong with Deaky. They wanted you here; Bri has medical proxy for John on tour, but as we’re local they insisted that we try to reach you if possible. Speaking of,” he turns to Brian briefly, “they left a set of clothes out for you as well, Bri. Go shower; Fred and I have already.”

Brian nods and strides off, presumably just happy to have something to do to occupy his mind. Then it’s just you and Roger, standing in the hallway and you have no idea what to do or say. “Can I see him?” you whisper. “I need to see him.”

“We’ll need to let the staff know you’re here, then I’m sure they’ll let you in. They rather have to, being that you’re married.” Roger jokes, and you know he’s having just as hard of a time coping right now as you are and means no offence with the joke. He gestures at his outfit: “They might make you get changed into these as well, though - they were talking about lowering the risk of contamination, and they gave the three of us shots as well. Just trying to play it safe.”

You nod wordlessly as Roger leads you a few doors down to where a nurse is coming out of a patient’s room, picking at a loose thread on the jumper you threw on when you left the flat. Absently, you realize it’s one of John’s, and you try to focus more on its comforting scent instead of the clinical antiseptic tang that all hospitals seem to have. Roger speaks to the nurse, but you’re distracted from the conversation by the sight of a sign you hadn’t noticed before, and can’t believe it took you this long to see: _Intensive Care Unit_. You draw in a sharp breath, realizing just how bad things must be if John needs to be here. It still doesn’t fully feel real, but it’s definitely beginning to sink in. 

Roger sees you beginning to panic, and leads you over to the wall where he gently pulls you down to sit next to him, an arm around you and your head on his still-damp shoulder. “Hey, hey,” he soothes, trying to calm you down. “Just hold on til the doctor comes, alright? You can see Deaky soon. I’m sure he’ll be alright; he’s getting the best care he possibly can right now.”

You nod shakily and manage to calm yourself down. The doctor arrives and confirms what Roger had told you; you need to change into a set of scrubs as well, and will need the same injection to prevent any risk of infection. You hear the word hepatitis being tossed around, and all you can think is how? You shake your head when the doctor asks if John’s been sexually active recently while away on tour, and part of you wants to laugh at him when he gives you a patronizing look in response to your utter certainty. But Roger backs you up, vouching for John’s character and insisting he wouldn’t cheat, in addition to the fact that he’s been so rundown lately he wouldn’t have even had the energy to. 

Then the question of drug usage comes up, to which you deny even more vehemently. John may enjoy his alcohol, but he’s never showed any interest in drugs. The doctor then asks about sharing drinks, or any other context where John may have come into contact with another person’s bodily fluids, to which you have no idea and Roger doesn’t seem to know either. He checks with Brian as he’s just returned from his shower, and Brian seems as in the dark as the rest of you. It turns out they’re waiting for some blood tests to complete anyway, but the doctor agrees that you should be alright to visit John once you’ve taken the proper precautions. 

Once you’ve gotten the injection and changed out into the scrubs the hospital has provided, you’re cleared to see John. The hallway is chilly, and you find yourself missing the warmth of John’s jumper. Once outside the door, you find yourself hesitant to enter the room. Going in will make this all too real, and part of you wants to just cling to the image of John being healthy and whole instead of in hospital requiring the services of the ICU. But you know you need to see him, as you’re sure he needs you too. They’ve warned you that he’ll most likely be in and out of consciousness and may not even be awake when you see him, but you know you need to do this for him. 

When you open the door, you’re immediately struck by how much warmer it is inside. The next thing you register is an armful of Freddie as he launches himself at you in another hug, much like Roger’s - tight and close and desperate. You stay like that for a moment, needing the support and trying to get up the courage to look past where Freddie is currently standing between you and the bed. Stepping away, you meet Freddie’s eyes for a moment before looking over, and you can’t suppress your gasp at the sight.

John is hooked up to a myriad of machinery and monitors, and doesn’t appear to be conscious at the moment. You’re able to identify a few pieces of the equipment - he has at least one IV going into his arm to replace fluids, as he’s been apparently vomiting a lot recently and having difficulty keeping things down, another monitor tracking his heart rate, a cannula under his nose for oxygen. Besides all the machinery, he also appears extremely jaundiced. (Forget the joke you made to Brian earlier, this is the real fright.) Though he’s a naturally quiet person, John has never been this eerily still and silent. The equipment surrounding him also has the added effect of making him seem so much more frail and insubstantial than he actually is, and you can feel your heart breaking.

You cross the room slowly, vaguely hearing Freddie and the nurse argue in the background about the number of people allowed in the room at once, and drop yourself gracelessly in the chair you assume Freddie was using prior to now, sitting beside the bed near John’s shoulder. Careful not to disrupt anything, you gently reach over to where his hand is lying lifelessly on top of the scratchy hospital blanket they’ve covered him in and take his hand in yours as best you can. You can’t speak right now; you have no words, but you hope that this action at least offers John some comfort, even if he’s not conscious.

The bickering has stopped, and you briefly look up to see that both the nurse and Freddie have left, leaving you alone with John. There’s no sound in the room besides the many machines he’s connected to, and you absolutely hate it - the lack of life in here is utterly stifling. You hear a low moan, and eagerly lean closer as John regains some level of consciousness, albeit rather sluggishly. You’re not sure how long he’ll be awake for, so you run your thumb over his knuckles, trying to reassure him of your presence. The two of you have always communicated best with nonverbal cues; whether it’s knowing glances or just touches here and there. The irony is not lost on either of you that for two people with such a lack of interest in sex, physical gestures and contact with each other is such an important part of your relationship. You hope it’s enough to reach him now, in his sick and likely highly medicated state. 

John’s hand twitches a little as he registers the contact of your hand holding it, and his head turns slightly to face you. There’s a wan smile on his face, but you know that despite how terrible he must be feeling, he’s at least happy you’re here. “Hello, love.” His voice is raspy, likely from the nausea and vomiting wreaking havoc on his throat. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

You reach your free hand over and carefully take his hand in both of yours, just relishing in the contact right now. He squeezes back, trying to comfort you as much as you are for him. “As are you,” you whisper, voice stuttering a little. “God, I was so terrified when Rog called me. I didn’t know you were this sick.”

“Neither did I,” John grimaces. “Rather crept up on me.”

“Jaundice isn’t something that normally ‘creeps up’ on anyone, though.” You raise your eyebrows skeptically. The last thing you want to do is accuse John of hiding anything that may have prevented this, as you’re sure he honestly didn’t know. But if there was anything that could have been done... you’d give anything to have him out of this place. 

John weakly shrugs a shoulder. “Didn’t think much of it at first. Thought it was just something I’d eaten and that American food wasn’t sitting right with me. I borrowed a bit more of Freddie’s makeup for shows, and figured if I just rested and had some medicine I’d be alright.” Just then his face goes pale, and you know he’s about to throw up. Thankfully, the nurse has left a basin on the table in the room, and you grab it and gently help to prop John up as he clutches the basin, retching. As predicted, there’s nothing left to come up at this point, but you still rub gentle circles on his back and hold his hair away from his face as best you can, murmuring words of encouragement. By the end, John is shaking, his body unable to cope with all the illness taking its toll on him.

You go to help him lie down again, but before you can lower him back onto the bed, John tilts himself slightly in your direction, leaning his head and body on yours and letting you hold him for a moment. This is just as much for your sake as it is for his, and both of you take comfort in that closeness until the nurse comes back in, drawn by the sound of John’s heart rate having spiked up on his monitor. She tuts over John needing to lie back down for rest and checks over the machines, and as she’s finishing, frowns at the sight of the bandage covering an old injury on John’s arm. Upon taking a closer look, you can see her eyes go wide and she says she needs the doctor to come and see this. You and John are confused and slightly alarmed by the urgency the nurse has, but you continue to sit by his side and hold his hand. 

The nurse returns with the doctor, who wastes no time checking over the wound site; soon, his expression has gone very grave as well, and he tells the nurse that he needs to speak to you alone. You find yourself subtly holding John’s hand a little tighter, trying to brace yourself for the inevitable bad news. For his part, John seems relatively calm throughout all this, but you know most of that is due to exhaustion and medication. You can already see John’s eyelids drooping again, signifying that he won’t be conscious for much longer, so the doctor gestures you out into the hall so John can rest some more. 

John has completely passed out again by the time you stand up from the chair, but you’re still loath to leave him on his own, especially in the face of what is certain to be bad news. Still, you know you need to hear what the doctor has to say, so you press a kiss to the back of John’s hand before reluctantly letting go and following the doctor out of the room.

Brian, Freddie, and Roger are all waiting outside, and they immediately gather in closer upon seeing you exit the room. The doctor asks you if you mind them hearing the news, to which you shake your head and let him know that whatever he needs to tell you, he can tell them as well.

The doctor sighs briefly and cuts right to the chase: “It’s worse than we thought; Mr. Deacon has gangrene.”

——

The entire group goes silent at this announcement, and you and Roger have gone deathly pale. Roger’s studied Bio; he knows more than any of you what the medical implications of this are. You’ve had enough mentions of gangrene pop up through your History studies that you have a functional knowledge of the worst case scenarios that can take place here.

It turns out that blood tests have come back positive for hepatitis B, which normally would be alright to treat on its own if nipped in the bud right away, but it’s lingered for a while untreated, which complicates matters. That still pales in light of the fact that John apparently has gangrene, which if not dealt with immediately means it could be fatal. There’s talk of antibiotics and debridement of the wound to try and clear it up, but the doctor informs you that there’s a chance that this may not be successful. Freddie asks what happens if the treatment doesn’t work, and Roger speaks up in a low voice before the doctor does: “...they might have to amputate it to stop the spread. He could lose his arm.”

Somehow, hearing that said out loud is what makes this finally real to you. John is at a high risk to lose everything he’s worked for with the band, to potentially have to live with a handicap for the rest of his life... assuming the treatment is successful and he even gets the _chance_ to live the rest of his life. There’s always the risk that the debridement won’t work, or that the gangrene will have spread too far for even amputation to catch, and John may end up withering away in the hospital before the year is even up. Someone says that they should contact John’s parents, but it’s hard to hear them over the low keening sound coming from somewhere nearby. Only when Roger steps over and wraps you into a tight hug again do you realize the sound is coming from you, and you’re now soaking the front of his awful hospital shirt with your tears as you bury your face in his chest and sob. 

It takes you longer than you’d like, but you try to pull yourself together, knowing you’re the one who has to give the go ahead for any medical decisions to help John and you know you’d never be able to live with yourself if you weren’t able to help him. You can collapse later; right now John needs you to keep a clear head. Still, it’s hard to calm down after that kind of news, but Roger and Freddie stay by your side to help you work through everything the doctor tells you about John’s treatment. Brian has taken on the task of contacting the Deacons to let John’s parents know what’s going on, bless him - there’s no possible way you’d have been able to do that. As it is, you recall that you should probably call the museum to let them know you won’t be in for work for a few days and call Mich to ask her to check in and feed Bean, now that enough time has passed for it to be a more reasonable hour. 

Once you get back from making that call, you’re left with the final medical form they need you to sign. You’ve cleared the hospital staff to do whatever they need to help John, all except the final call of whether you’ll let them amputate his arm or not if it comes down to it. You’ve hesitated slightly on that one, trying to work past your own emotions and distress at the situation, and figure out what John would want. Certainly he’ll be upset that he can’t play bass anymore, but John has always been very pragmatic and you’re certain that he would find a way to still make music if he truly wanted. He’d also likely be able to find work doing engineering jobs - either with the band or elsewhere.

But would he want to? Would he want to give it up and work a ‘normal’ job? Would he want to continue working with the band if he’s not able to play? Would he be truly happy, working with the band’s tech and seeing someone else onstage playing bass guitar? You know how much John values playing with Queen and the relationship he’s building with the other band members, and you can’t help but feel that being put in that position to either see himself replaced or left behind would be devastating. You look down at the release form where it sits on a clipboard on your lap, mocking you and your indecision. You don’t like to think that John would rather die than risk living without an arm, but this is an impossible choice. 

——

You wonder if John’s woken up again, and if anyone has told him the verdict. You decide to go back to his room; the hallway is still cold and if nothing else, you can warm up a little in John’s room and just sit near him if he’s not awake. You’re not sure where the others have gone, but figure they’ll know where to find you if they need. With that, you quietly shuffle your way back into the room, trying not to disturb the nurse administering what you assume are antibiotics or some other form of medication to help John. 

John appears to be awake again, and while his colour looks slightly improved since last time you saw him, he still looks rather like a ghost, pale and drawn against the hospital sheets. Yellow-tinted, but a ghost nonetheless. He looks a bit more alert this time and smiles at your approach, reaching his good hand out to you to take yours as you sit beside the bed. “Hello again.” He squeezes your hand gently. “I was hoping you’d come back sooner than later.”

Your breath is catching in your throat, and you know he won’t nearly be as happy and content in a moment when you give him the news. You assume no one else has already, given his reasonably optimistic demeanour. John notices your lack of response (of course) and asks what’s wrong. You make a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a sob; even when hospitalized in the ICU, John’s first concern is how you’re doing. “John...do you remember the doctor’s visit earlier? When I was here before?”

John’s brow furrows in thought. “A bit? I remember you visiting, but I don’t know what he said.”

“Your arm, the one with the bandage on it.” You gesture towards it, and John’s eyes follow your movement. “That’s the one you’ve been telling me about on the phone, right? ‘Bit of muscle strain’, ‘arm fell asleep from holding the phone’, ‘got a bit of a cut from fiddling with a piece of equipment’?”

John nods and looks back to you. “That’s the one, yeah. Why?”

You can’t do this. You know you need to be strong for John and tell him what’s wrong with him, but right now all you can get out is, “...it’s bad, John. Really bad.” The hospital chair is small, but you somehow find a way to hike up your legs onto it so your knees are hunched up in front of you, almost pinning the clipboard to your torso in the meantime. John frowns a little now, clearly confused. “How bad?” You say nothing, tears threatening to spill over again. John tries again: “Love, please tell me. However bad it is, I should know.”

Tears are still trying to escape your eyes as you slowly pull out the clipboard and hand it to John in place of an answer. You watch as John reads over it, going over all the details as best he can through the slight haze of medication before looking back at you in shock. “...what is this?”

You take a deep breath, tears falling at this point unheeded. “When the doctor stopped by, it was to tell us that you have gangrene from the injury in your arm. This is a form they want me to sign, giving them permission to amputate your arm if they’re not able to take care of the spread with medication and debridement.”

You didn’t think it was possible, but John’s managed to go even more pale. He shakes his head in disbelief. “That can’t be right. It can’t be that bad, can it?”

You nod shakily, unable to speak anymore without a bit of a stutter due to your nerves and agitation. “It r-really is, John. The doctor says it was probably just a small infection that you’d most likely have been able to fight off, but the hepatitis weakened your immune system and it turned into...this. Now they’re talking about possible septic shock and treatment options; I’m so fucking frightened right now, and I don’t know what to do. They w-want me to sign this to give them the okay if it gets that bad, but I can’t bear the thought of m-making the wrong choice and possibly destroying your life.” You wipe at your eyes ineffectively, tears still falling. 

John holds your hand tighter, but lies back and looks at the ceiling, breathing more heavily at that news. You can hear his heart rate speeding up on his monitor, showing you clearly how stressed he is about this. A nurse pokes her head in the door again and frowns at you, saying you shouldn’t be agitating John in his condition. She warns you that if this continues, they will need you to leave, next of kin or no. You apologize and agree to try and calm John down, but you’re not sure how well that’ll work now that he’s been told he might lose his arm. 

The nurse leaves, but not before another squinty-eyed look in the direction of the monitor, and you’re left alone with John again. He’s gone so still that you almost think he’s passed out, but you can see that his eyes are still open. He looks as though he’s desperately trying to hold himself together, so you try to distract him with a ridiculous story about Bean. But John just shakes his head, indicating he’s not in the mood for that right now. His hand is clenching and unclenching around yours, but you bite back any sounds of discomfort if he accidentally grips too tightly, knowing that he’s most likely having a hard time processing. 

You wonder if he possibly wants to be alone for a bit and ask him that, to which John’s head turns to you so fast you’re surprised he doesn’t give himself whiplash. “No, please! Don’t go,” he pleads, shifting his hand to hold on more tightly. “I can’t... I can’t be alone right now. Please. Not after that.”

You reassure John that you won’t go anywhere if he doesn’t want you to, and he relaxes at that, but only slightly. He goes back to staring at the ceiling, and you just sit there with him in silence, just keeping him company as he attempts to process this. It doesn’t seem to be helping, though, as you see him trying and failing to stifle tears, them running down his face in shiny wet streaks. When he does speak again, he sounds completely wrecked. “...what’ll you do if I lose my arm?”

“What do you mean, John? I’ll be right here with you.” You’re slightly confused.

He shakes his head again and closes his eyes. “I won’t be able to play in the band anymore, and who knows if I’d be able to find work in other places with only one arm. I won’t be able to take care of you.” The last part comes out as a pained whisper as another tear falls from his tightly closed eyes. 

You find yourself wanting to cry again as well at the sound of complete despair in his voice, but try your best to keep yourself together for John’s sake. “So?” You can’t quite keep your voice from shaking when you speak, but it’s steadier than you thought it would be. “So what if you can’t? I still love you.”

“You didn’t sign up to be married to an invalid. You shouldn’t have to take on that burden.” He still won’t meet your eyes, and it breaks your heart. 

“You’re not an invalid, and I also didn’t marry your arm, last time I checked. I married you, regardless of what condition you’re in. _Sickness and health_ , remember?” You let go of his hand and fold your arms over your chest, determined not to give these dark thoughts of his an inch. Or yours, for that matter.

“Hell of a way to have that tested,” John chokes out, finally opening his eyes and turning his head to meet your gaze. “Hasn’t even been a year.” He looks as troubled as you feel, and you know that for all his weak attempts to push you away, you need each other now more than ever.

You get off the chair and sit yourself on the edge of the bed as best you can to be nearer to John. “No matter what happens, we’ll make it work. I promise you that. It’s not just about you taking care of me; we take care of each other. And if I need to do more for you to help you, then I gladly will.” John’s leaned in closer, a hand on your leg as you try to convince him (and yourself) of what an uncertain future the two of you might have dealing with this. “I’m sure any of the boys would be willing to help too, if you asked. I know you don’t like to be a bother, but like it or not, you’ve picked up three brothers and you know they’ll do what they can.”

“I just... I’ll be dragging them down. Queen’s going places, I know it - they can’t give that up. Not for me. There’s something special happening with the band’s music, and I’m not worth giving that up for.”

“Hey.” John’s got his head bent to look at the awful blanket covering his lap, but he turns his head slightly at your sharp tone. “Don’t you ever say something like that. You’re valued just as much as any of them. The band’s music wouldn’t be where it is without you, and I doubt they’d give up on you so easily, so don’t give up on them. You haven’t seen how upset they’ve been over all this; they’re just as worried over you as I am. Don’t make me call them in to tell you so.”

John smiles weakly and leans on you more heavily, using his good hand to wipe at his still-wet eyes. “Where would I be without you, love? You’re an absolute pillar.”

“I really don’t feel like one. I’m honestly trying not to fall to bits either,” you respond. You’re doing your best to put your arm around John’s shoulders without disrupting anything, but you cringe a little when your hand brushes a little too close to the wound site and you hear a bit of a crackling sound. Even though the doctor had warned you about that side effect of gangrene, it doesn’t make it any less uncomfortable to hear it. Thankfully John doesn’t seem to notice, and seems to be calming down a bit more. “I suppose we’re supporting each other, then. The way we always seem to,” he mumbles, sounding sleepy again. 

“I suppose we are.” You smile slightly. “Get some rest, John. God knows you’ll need it to get better,” you murmur, bending to kiss the top of his head and feeling him settle down and drift off to sleep by your side. The clipboard with the release form is still mocking you from where it’s sitting on your abandoned chair, but right now you can’t bring yourself to care.

You sit with John as long as you can, but eventually your leg gets a cramp from sitting half on the bed awkwardly, so you have to carefully extricate yourself. You decide to go for a bit of a walk to try and clear your head and stretch your legs, and you grab the clipboard on your way out, hoping you’ll be able to get some more answers as to what to do. 

On your way out, you happen to run into the doctor. “Ah, Mrs. Deacon, what a coincidence; I was just looking for you.” You still have to double take sometimes at being called that, and ask what the matter is. It turns out that John’s condition has stabilized enough that they want to start treatment for the gangrene as soon as possible. You ask him to remind you of the debridement options, as you don’t recall a lot of what you were told earlier. He nods in understanding, and tells you that there’s several different options, but the hospital really encourages one method in particular known for its effectiveness. “It also greatly reduces the risk of potential amputation, which I’m sure you’ll be quite happy to hear.”

“Of course. What’s the method, then?”

——

“Maggots.” Even sick in bed, John manages to look considerably less than impressed when you tell him. “They want to put maggots in my arm. This is 1974, not the Dark Ages; are they joking?”

“ _Sterile_ maggots,” you stress the first word, trying to make John see that this is a good idea, despite how off-putting it sounds. “They breed them in a lab, so it’s all very clean. It’s meant to be one of the most effective ways to clear up gangrene; even more so than surgery. He said it would only take a few days, and it considerably lowers the risk of something going wrong and potentially needing to amputate.”

John perks up slightly at that, but still looks wary at the idea of creepy crawlies having to sit around on his arm for extended periods of time. “...and there’s really no better option than that?”

“The doctor thinks this is your best shot, and Rog agrees with him as well. Quite frankly, if I can’t trust their word for it, then who can I?” you plead. “I know right now I technically have the power to override you medically if you don’t agree, but you know I don’t want to do that to you. That wouldn’t be fair.” John frowns, but says nothing. 

“Please?” You try again. “I don’t want to have to make that decision on my own; I don’t want that kind of responsibility.” You lower your head and mumble the last part. “I just don’t want to lose you. Not to illness if you don’t want the treatment, and not to watching you fade away if you get the treatment but lose your arm.”

John frowns some more and reaches over for your hand again, turning his good hand palm up where it rests on the bed to indicate he wants you to hold it. “I wouldn’t commit suicide, if that’s what you’re thinking. I wouldn’t leave you alone like that.”

You reach over to put your hand in his, running your thumb across it absently. “Maybe not, but you wouldn’t be living. Not really. You’d say you were fine, but you’d just kind of fade away into the background without the band and the music to help keep you steady. I don’t think I’d be able to prevent that on my own; you might have married me, but you need the band just as much.” You hold his hand a bit tighter. “I just want to make sure I do what’s best for you, John. We take care of each other, remember?”

“We do.” You can tell he’s still tense, but his shoulders lower slightly. “Alright. I still don’t particularly like it, but if it’s the best option, I’ll do it. I’m not ready to die just yet,” he jokes. 

“Thank you,” you whisper, feeling a tiny sliver of hope creep in. You know you still need to wait and see what happens with the treatment, but you’re a lot more optimistic now that John’s agreed. 

——

Once you’ve given the doctor the go ahead, they waste no time in starting treatment. John still seems sceptical about how well this will work, but puts up with the application of the maggots much better than you thought he would. It turns out that they can dress the wound in such a way so that he (and everyone else) don’t have to see the maggots, which is a relief for everyone except Roger, who’s disappointed at not being able to see more. 

It’s a tiring three days while you agonize over the success of the treatment, during which time you’re forced to go home and take care of yourself properly, as are the rest of the band. You spend time cuddling with Bean, who seems to be even more affectionate than normal, and try your best to keep your mind off of worst case scenarios. Freddie, Roger, and Bri all stop by when they get booted out of the hospital as well, no one truly comfortable to be alone during this time while you wait to find out whether this will work. 

John seems in relatively good spirits, all things considered, though he still gets tired relatively quickly and sleeps a lot. He also complains sometimes about the odd tickling sensation the maggots cause, but he knows that means they’re doing what they’re meant to. He’s also had to threaten Roger on more than one occasion when he’s woken up to catch the drummer peering underneath the wound dressing to watch the maggots. Unfortunately the the threat of bodily injury only seems to encourage Roger, who seems enthusiastic about John’s insistence that he’ll strangle the blond once he’s out of bed and feeling well enough. 

Once the 72 hours is up, you’re all waiting with bated breath as the doctor does a check of the wound site. When he pronounces the treatment a success and declares that all John will need to do afterward is continue on a course of antibiotics and bedrest as his body fights off the hepatitis, you want to cry with relief. He’ll still need to stay in the hospital for a while longer while the wound begins to properly heal, as it needs to be kept as clean as possible, but the fact that John’s mostly out of the woods medically is already enough to relieve a lot of your stress. 

Of course, things never go completely smoothly. Even as John’s health slowly improves over the next few weeks and months, you can tell that he’s frustrated about not recovering quicker, and therefore not being able to contribute to the new album. When he’s allowed out of the hospital, he’s stiff and sore, walking around like a senior citizen due to all the time he’s spent in bed. He can’t play bass for long without his arm bothering him or without getting tired, and he’s next to no use in recording sessions anytime he does try. It’s gotten to the point where the rest of the band have been recording everything but the bass lines and leaving those open. John confesses to you one night that he’s still worried that they might decide to drop him and go with someone else if he can’t recover faster.

John also tells you later that he’d gotten offers from other bands, should he have decided to leave Queen. He turns them all down every time, telling them that he’s fully committed to the band and not looking for a change. He just hopes that Brian, Freddie, and Roger don’t give up on him, though; it’s been his one ever-pervasive fear ever since he got sick. But they never do; they encourage him every step of the way, and while they do admit the slow progress on recording tracks is frustrating, it’s far better than the alternative. “You could have died, darling,” Freddie declares one day when John is feeling particularly down on himself due to exhaustion draining him sooner than he’d like. “Slow progress is better than no progress, and we’re just happy to see you up and about. Concentrate on getting better, and then we can worry about recording bass lines.”

“But the album deadline-“

“ _Fuck_ the album deadline, dear. The label can piss off, as far as I’m concerned. I’m far more frightened about your wife’s reaction to you being pushed too hard than some fat cat in a suit telling me we haven’t pushed you enough.” Freddie grins at you where you’re waiting by the door to drive John home and gives you a wink. “I value my own life too much to risk that.” You roll your eyes, but it seems to help John out as you help him load his equipment into the car. “Go home and get better, Deaky!” You can hear Freddie calling out from behind you as you get in the car. “The tracks will be here waiting for your input when you’re ready and able.”

——

Sooner than you realize, it’s come up to your first wedding anniversary. You’ve been so caught up with John’s health and helping him tend to things that the time has really flown by. You and John haven’t made any specific plans, still not having much money and him having dedicated so much time recently to getting his parts finally recorded for the album. 

When you arrive home from work one afternoon, John’s fiddling with his amp in the sitting room, pieces spread all over the floor and end table beside him. He seems rather preoccupied, so you stand in the doorway and call his name to get his attention. It takes him a moment to finish up whatever it is he’s adjusting, but he turns to greet you with a smile, standing up and carefully stepping over the pieces that are still spread out to walk over to you and give you a warm embrace, kissing the top of your head. “Good news, love - we finally finished all the tracks for the album earlier today!” He sounds so excited, you can’t help but smile too.

“That’s fantastic!” You beam back at him, so incredibly happy on his behalf. You know how much this means to him, completing this and moving on from the hell that the past 5 months has been. The jaundice has finally cleared up as well and John is almost completely back to full health, save for his arm bothering him on occasion if he goes for too long without resting it. “I’m so pleased to hear that; I know how hard you’ve all worked on this, given the circumstances.”

“Absolutely. I’ll just be happy to put it all behind us, honestly,” John admits, still holding you close, before he pulls away to look you in the eyes. “But! I have something I want you to listen to. Wait here.” He runs off to go grab whatever it is, and you’re a bit confused. John would have told you if he’d bought a new LP, but you decide to wait and see what it is. A minute later, John comes back, holding a record in a plain sleeve that he puts on the turntable. You see him fiddling with the settings and figuring out where he wants to start playing from (not the beginning?) before he lowers the needle and lets the track play.

The first thing you hear is a bright acoustic guitar, and a fun upbeat Caribbean-style tempo kicks in. You find yourself nodding along to the beat, smiling at the sheer energy and positive feeling that the song evokes. You recognize Freddie’s voice singing the lyrics, and turn to John where he’s still standing by the record player watching you sway to the music, a big smile on his face. “John, this is lovely! What song is this?”

John’s smile gets even wider, eyes crinkling at the edges. “...it’s my song. My first song, for our album.”

You gasp in surprise. “Really? This is yours? This is incredible.” John’s been trying for a while to try and write something for the group, but he’s never been satisfied with anything so far and hasn’t showed it to the others. To hear that he came up with something he liked, and that the others did too is phenomenal. 

John ducks his head slightly at the praise, still grinning. “Actually, it’s yours. I wrote it for you. I know it’s not a real present, but I wanted to give you this. Happy early anniversary.” He looks up shyly, trying to gauge your reaction. You haven’t seen him this bashful since you first started dating, and it’s absolutely adorable. 

“You... wrote a song for me? I... I don’t know what to say.” You’re absolutely stunned; you had no idea John was even working on a song recently, let alone one that he intended for you.

John nods, lifting the needle off the record as the song finishes and makes his way back over to you, taking your hands in his. “I wrote the lyrics while I was still in hospital. Didn’t have much else to do but lie in bed and think, so when I felt well enough I convinced the nurses to get me a pen and paper to write it out. _‘Fill me up with the desire to carry on’_... that’s all you, love. I don’t think I’d have been nearly as strong while I was sick without you there. You’ve never given up on me; not this whole time.”

You feel a lump rising in your throat and tears springing to your eyes at the meaningful sentiment. “Of course I wouldn’t! And this is a wonderful present; you being alive and well and here with me is more than enough, but I love the song. Thank you.” You raise one set of joined hands and kiss his knuckles, slightly scraped up from whatever he’s been tinkering with. “Please play it again for me?”

As John walks back over to the turntable to put the song back on, he comments, “There’s something else I think you’ll like about the song; listen closely to the lyrics when it plays.” He’s got a bit of a mischievous glint in his eyes when he turns back to you while the song starts, so you’re curious as to what he wants you to hear. “Alright...?”

It takes you a few moments to get it, but your eyes widen as you hear the words, and the way they’re phrased. “Wait a moment... am I hearing what I think I’m hearing?” John’s only response is a closed mouth smirk, just watching the wheels turn in your mind by the changes in your facial expression. When the song finishes for a second time, you look over at John, who is still smirking. “John, this almost sounds like you’re talking about...”

The smirk grows. “Yeah.”

“And no one else noticed that?”

“Why would they? They’re not necessarily looking for it. Freddie may have had some suspicions, but he never said anything.”

“And you worded it like that knowing he’d have to sing it. That’s hilarious, given how active he likes to be.” You’re giggling now, laughing at the subtle innuendo John has managed to layer into this song of his.

“Not only that,” John continues, coming to stand by you on the sofa, still grinning madly. “Thought it’d be funny to stick a joke like that out in the open. What we do is our own business, but there’s no harm in putting a bit of irony out for the public. It’s so overt, it’s covert. No one will get that joke but us.” Then he’s laughing too, spurred on by your own.

“Oh my God - John, you’re incorrigible.” You’re dying of laughter at this point, wiping tears away that for the first time in months, have nothing to do with anger or sadness. “I love it even more now; it’s absolutely sweet and absolutely hilarious at the same time. The public won’t know what hit it when the record comes out next month.”

“Not at all,” John agrees, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you close as you both begin to gently dance along to the record in an open patch of floor to not disrupt his work on his amp. “I’m so glad you like the song,” he murmurs, voice soft beside your ear as you both sway to the music. “I promise I’ll be able to get you a proper gift one year, though.”

You stop dancing and pull away a bit to hold both of his hands out in between you two, directing him to look at them. “I’m sure you will. But right now, the fact that you’re here with both arms intact and making music the way you did before, in defiance of the odds is more than enough. We’ve survived one year, and I’m sure we’ll have plenty more to come.”

“I hope so.” John smiles back and takes you in his arms again so you can dance together some more as a slower song plays, leaning in close with your foreheads touching. You’re enjoying each other’s company while the record continues to play in the background; a tribute to what John’s had to battle to get to where he is now. Despite how stressful the past year has been, you’ve both come out stronger for it, and you know the two of you will always support each other no matter what.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also @smittyjaws on Tumblr, if you want to hit up my dumpster fire of a blog!


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